Nightmare
by foxtwin
Summary: What's happening to Spider–Man? First his spider–sense fails him, then he wakes up in the oddest place of all.


**Nightmare**

For the fifteenth time in as many minutes, Spider Man had scanned the rooftops of New York from his lofty vantage point – a favorite outlook atop one of the many apartment houses near Central Park.

The day had been one of those calmer ones: three robberies, two car chases and some thug who was peppered with mace long enough for Spider-Man to arrive at the scene and wrap things up in that seasoned method of his.

Spider-Man's thoughts drifted momentarily to heftier days, the days of the Green Goblin – Norman Osborn, to the days of his son, Harry, who had both been his friend and his nemesis. He missed Harry. Deeply. Even in his nightmares – and there had been many since Venom's and Harry's deaths – Harry had always come to his aid at that last possible split second, the time right before awakening in a cold sweat. Even now he could feel their absence lingering on the breeze high above New York City.

When Peter had finished scanning the city, he determined that the evening could be spent alone with Mary Jane in the relative quiet of his apartment living room. He'd give her a call, maybe meet her at a nice restaurant. Maybe, they could flip through old photos, talk about Harry, talk about…

Feeling the perspiration of the day's rigors (or was it that anxious perspiration of anticipated intimacy?), Peter felt sure enough of his surroundings to risk taking off his mask. He ran his hands quickly through his sweaty hair before donning the mask once again.

Spotting a place not too distant to attach his web, Spider-Man reached out his hand to spin a web. But before he could, his world went black.

That was all he could remember after he woke up with a stiff neck, a sore back and a pounding headache that screamed for some sort of extra-strength painkiller. What had happened? Where was he?

It didn't take long for Peter to realize – and recognize – where he was. Whoever had put him in Norman Osborn's bedroom, let alone his bed, had not bothered to lock the door. It was wide open, almost tempting him to leave in a most nonchalant manner. That's when Peter figured his spider-sense would kick in. But it didn't. And that worried him. Worried him enough to be cautious despite the tingle and slightly uncomfortable feeling he got at such times. Rising from his prone position on Norman's bed, Peter kept his eye on the door and his senses on the area around him.

What time was it? Peter looked down at his wrist, and noted what should have been obvious before. His Spider-Man outfit, the one he'd painstakingly created, was not even on him. He was in civilian clothes that were not even his own. A loose-fitting T-shirt draped his front. A pair of baggy jeans barely fit him, and nearly slid down his legs. His feet were bare. The watch on his wrist – where had that come from? – said _8:36_. He didn't wonder whether it was _morning or evening_, what with the light streaming through Norman Osborn's closed windows.

Hiking his pants up, and finding a suitable belt in Norman's closet, Peter did his best to stay presentable. The dead, he hoped, would not be coming back for their goods.

The manor had been abandoned for months after Harry's death, taken over by the estate and left in its original condition. No servants worked there anymore, or so the story went. But Peter could tell the estate must have kept up the manor – if only until it was sold. Peter had had no reason to believe otherwise, even now, as he cautiously moved from room to room.

Two thoughts occurred to him as he turned a corner. Either he was dreaming all of this, or Harry was back from the dead. Or Norman was back from the dead. Or both were back from the dead. Okay, so that was more than two thoughts, but the sentiment of them was the same. Peter's spider-sense, which wasn't tingling but probably should have been, seemed to have gone on hiatus and left him dry. Were his powers waning? It was enough to make Peter even more anxious. Of course, this might all be the result of too much crime fighting. Heaven knew he needed a break, but he just couldn't bring himself to take one.

Peter's cautious optimism that he would find the person who had brought him here spurred him on as he scoured the manor, but he found empty room after empty room. Windows were shut; doors to the outside were locked. Harry and Norman's lab was likewise empty of everything, excepting the masks, vials and myriad devices they had developed and used against him in their madness. It all made no sense. Whoever had done this to him had been crafty, stealthy and above all, meticulous.

It took Peter almost three hours to investigate the manor from top to bottom, without any sign of Harry, Norman, or even Bernard, the Osborn's' loyal butler. No one was at home, which (to Peter's dismay) was exactly as it should have been all along.

Without much more to go on, but a lot of seasoned caution, Peter took a last inventory of his surroundings, found the front door of the Osborn manor, and fled the massive house in what could only be described as a controlled panic.

As soon as his bare feet hit the cold pavement, Peter regretted not grabbing Harry's shoes from his room. The thought of webswinging occurred to him – to keep his feet warmer. But doing so would only call attention to himself – especially without his costume.

He missed his costume. After the incident with Venom, the red, blue and black had come to symbolize his virtuous cause and mien. It also reminded him of MJ.

As he made his way barefoot along New York's streets toward his own apartment, Peter's thoughts and spirits soured. The events, thoughts and distractions were most disconcerting to Peter's own sense of duty. Someone – it had to be someone he knew – was playing a game with him, toying with him, showing they had power over him, knew his every move. His only costume was gone, and he could only suspect stolen by…by whom? Despite the logical conclusions, Peter was certain that Norman Osborn was not to blame. He was dead; and Harry Osborn, his one-time adversary – reformed and now dead – was likewise an unlikely suspect. It couldn't be Venom, Sandman or Dr. Ock. They'd either left him alone or died horrible deaths as well. He shuddered to think about them coming back from the dead.

Shivers of the unknown raced up and down Peter's spine. His spider-sense hadn't detected anything amiss, and he hardly believed this to be a dream. It all felt too…real. Peter was, of course, more aware than most of his own limitations. But he also knew his powers and abilities were more than adequate to dispatch even the vilest of evildoers. Yet, this did little to calm his ever-jangling nerves.

Spying every passer-by, building, street corner and skyway for a potential encounter with Harry, Norman or anyone else for that matter who might have chosen to place him in this predicament, Peter became more and more unsure of himself, almost paranoid.

An unexpected tap on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks, causing him to whirl around almost instantly, bracing himself for the fight of his life.

"Whoa, Tiger," Mary Jane said, taking a step back, appraising him. "I wasn't sure it was you. I was on my way to go shopping, when I saw you. I've been following you since 138th Street. I'm surprised you didn't notice. What's with your clothes?"

"Oh. Hi, MJ. You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Mary Jane looked doubtful. "Peter… try me."

Peter looked down. "It's terrible, MJ. I was on my way home last night, then found myself this morning in Norman Osborn's room without my Spider-Man costume. Instead, I had on these clothes."

"How? Why? Do you have any idea who might have brought you there? I mean, I know you and Harry had issues, but that's all over now. Harry's dead. What more is there to prove?"

Peter shrugged. "I'm not exactly sure of the how or the why. But… I can't help thinking that someone is playing with my mind."

MJ softened a bit, trying to lighten the mood with a friedly jibe. "You didn't drink anything, did you? Eat too many clams? Have some bad sushi?" There was a smile on Mary Jane's face that was meant to be disarming, but Peter was not in the mood. Huffing, he started walking away.

"I'm already uptight, MJ," he called back. She rushed forward to join him.

"I'm sorry, Peter. I should have been more understanding. This is way too strange."

"I know."

"But, first things first. We have _got_ to get you out of these clothes and get you some fabric for that costume of yours. We can't have Spider-Man going on vacation, now, can we?"

Peter smiled lightly at Mary Jane. She gave him a wink, and then stepped into the busy New York City streets to hail a cab.

Shaking off his fears, Peter threw himself into the cab, thankful to at least have MJ at his side.

* * *

The old homeless man had been an afterthought, a way to watch Parker and yet not be seen. The man was a … convenience ... as he watched the webslinger and his girlfriend enter the cab.

_I'm back, Spider-Man! Oh, yes. I'm back. And the less you know it, the better. Your days of intimidating me are over. I've come back for what is mine, and you won't stop me this time. Not even remotely. Not even…at all._


End file.
